Notes: I forgot to mention, but don't get mad at me for my portrayal of Karofsky. He's a confused guy who makes some mistakes, not a horrible person. You'll see... just, don't get angry. He's not a bad guy.
Burt felt a little queasy. Leaving your wife and child alone, especially in their situation, was always mind boggling. You never know when someone is going to come to the door. You never know who is going to come to the door.
He held on to the leather steering wheel, tight enough that white splotches blossomed along his fingers. The feeling distracted him from the panic in his chest.
His phone rang, Burt reaching in his pocket to retrieve it.
"Hello?" He answered gruffly, trying to flex his fingers while holding the cell phone.
"Hey, honey," Elizabeth's voice murmured through the phone. "I had a feeling you were a nervous wreck."
Burt held the device in place with his ear and loosened the collar on his overalls, using the opposite hand to drive. It was a little ridiculous how sweaty he was now, considering the mild temperature outside the car window.
"Yeah," Burt sighed. Of course she knew. "How're you doing?"
"Burt, you leave Kurt and I home alone every day now. You've been leaving us home alone for eight years. Your wife and child are perfectly safe and able to defend themselves." Elizabeth consoled, probably fixing breakfast for Kurt when the pale, small little boy finally rolled out of bed.
"Alright, alright," Burt said, "But be safe. If you hear the doorbell-,"
"I know what to do, honey. You just go to work." She told him.
"Okay, I will. Bye, Lizzie."
"Goodbye, Burt."
Burt didn't realize in that moment how that goodbye, was her last.
...
For two whole days, famous poet Edgar Allen Poe went missing. On October 3, 1849 he was found by a man named Joseph W. Walker, who just chanced to be walking down the streets of Baltimore when Poe needed him. Edgar was in torpor, delirious and drunk with terror. No one knows for sure what really happened to him, but it is highly understandable to assume Edgar Allen Poe had quite a few leaches in his life as well. When Joseph hurried to get Edgar into Washington College Hospital, the poet repeated the word "Reynolds" over and over, almost like a dying mantra, from inside his hospital room. All along the halls, the words could be heard. Right before he died, Edgar lifted his head to utter his final sentence. "Lord help my soul," left his lips along with his last breath.
Currently, Kurt Hummel felt like he was Edgar Allen Poe on October third and October second of 1849 because this incident would always remain a mystery to all but Karofsky and himself. Karofsky's callused, football-worn hand slid up his shirt, gripping the trembling flesh with all too much force. This was those two days, and he understood completely why Edgar Allen Poe would seek some type of help from the hierarchy, why his soul would be damaged, why he couldn't bear to say anything but Reynolds. Maybe Reynolds was like "she cancelled" or "Yes, I went to piano lessons".
Karofsky's eyes were dark, scared. They looked like Kurt's did when he gazed in the mirror the first time his refection had a broken nose. They looked like Burt's did when Burt saw this reflection. They looked like his mother's when she thought her boy was going to be one of them. They looked like that of a certain curly haired boy who'd been chosen as Caged. Karofsky's eyes were terrified, two pupils holding onto their irises like a lifejacket.
"You tell anyone about what happened," Karofsky leaned in so close Kurt felt the boy's erratic heart, beating fast in his chest, "And I will kill, goddammit." Karofsky whispered it, hoarse. He let go of Kurt, leaving bruises and red marks along Kurt's ghostly skin.
Kurt nodded feverishly in response to Karofsky's threat, the larger boy now retreating towards the locker room door. He had to unlock it before existing, of course. Kurt didn't even want to try to imagine the consequences if someone had walked in around this time last week.
Eyes closed, Kurt wished he was standing on the Woodhull Bridge; or flinging himself off of it, rather.
...
Kurt's ears buzzed against the silence of the school playground. He had sat on this bench before. The thing itself made him feel a little nostalgic, to be honest. Kurt missed the times when sitting on his bench and playing with dolls was enough to forget about the bullies at school. Now, there was so much he needed to push at the back of his mind, that there was no room anymore. His head was unbalanced, weighed downwards by the horrible skeletons that inhabited it.
His mom. Karofsky. Piano lessons. The caged people. Government searchers. Blaine.
Kurt lifted his eyes to the gray sky above, turning darker each minute. The night was creping in fast like a swarm of bees, like the anxiety that grew in the cavern deep in the crevices and cracks of his metaphorical heart.
Kurt cringed when his back hit the bench in the worst of ways, stinging the blue bruise- probably purple by now- that had been planted there in situations he'd like to not think about. But of course the memories slipped themselves into Kurt's frontal lobe.
Kurt closed his eyes, the buzzing in his ears escalading into a loud ringing. He could feel hands on his hips. He didn't dare think about hands anywhere lower. Fortunately, he didn't have too because that hadn't happened yet, but that didn't mean it wouldn't.
The memories stung his mind. They were a knife, digging into his brain. The headaches were becoming unbearable.
Kurt stood up, the cracks of his achy joints echoing in the deserted park. Cool air that whispered its way through the leaves of the trees ghosted across Kurt's skin. He shivered, wishing his clothes weren't so torn so he could wrap them tighter around his arms. Goosebumps trailed along his forearms, like balloons inflating on his skin. His body shook under his lightweight jacket.
With each footstep, Kurt became weary of the watch on his wrist. His curfew was eleven thirty, and it was almost eleven. At this rate, he'd never make it home in time. He tried to care about that, but the livid bruises on his back made him believe otherwise.
His breath came out in shuddered huffs, turning into a vapor as it left his lips. He could see the Woodhull Bridge overhead, the Cage resting at the very end of it. Inside, he could just make out the outline of a boy. Kurt filled his lungs with as much oxygen that was humanly possible and took a few confident steps towards the cage.
He past it with ease, sliding away from the object without even glancing at Blai- the caged boy.
He walked along the bridge, ignoring the loud clap that reverberated from his footsteps and bounced in the empty air.
The claps sounded a lot like people being thrown against lockers. Or one person, at least.
He finally managed to climb up the rickety steps that led to his home. Terrified, he opened the door. The lights and television were on, which meant Burt had been up waiting for him. Kurt tried to swallow the anxiety, but to no avail, for there was still a lump near his uvula that set his teeth on edge.
"Dad?" He called hesitantly, "I'm home, Dad." He said once more, as if he needed to clarify.
His father was sitting in the living room chair, holding a beer in one hand and turning off the television with the necessary remote in the other. He breathed in a few times, his eyes sealing closed like the gate of a moat.
"Kurt, do you know what I was watching?" He asked resignedly.
"No." Kurt whispered, even though he was fairly certain what it was.
"The news, Kurt," He nearly growled, gripping the remote like it was his only way to not physically injure something, "I was watching the news because I thought they'd taken you, Kurt!"
He should've known this would happen. "Mrs. Long wanted to run a few scales." Kurt croaked out the lie, the Reynolds. He might as well. They were starting to pile up.
"At nine at ten at night, Kurt?" Burt narrowed his eyes.
"I went to library after," Actually, I stayed after school to finish homework. "And I started reading this really great book," No, Karofsky found me. "So I couldn't put it down," And hit me and put his hands up my shirt and said he'd kill me if I told anyone about last week. That's why my shirt has three tears instead of two, Dad. "And I just lost track of time." So I walked all the way to my old elementary school and sat in the playground for an hour.
"Alright," Burt sighed, "You just- God, I worry."
"Don't worry so much," You could never worry enough. "I'm fine." I'm not.
"I'm sorry I got angry."
"It's okay."
...
The next morning was that of a Saturday. This obviously made Kurt feel better. He wouldn't have to see the school, Karofsky, the Woodhull Bridge (or what marked its end). Kurt was a free man today.
He sat up with much more gusto than he had 24 hours ago. Today was a little brighter than he had remembered, the sun shining with more forcefulness. There wasn't a definite reason as to why Kurt felt better. Maybe it was the good eight hours of sleep. Or perhaps the warm feeling in his diaphragm had something to do with the spectacular dream he had last night. Kurt loved dreams that matched up with the reality you wished you had.
His head floated back onto his pillow with a soft thump, emitting a creak from deep within the box spring. The covers seemed to migrate up to his. The sun slipped through the patterned blinds on his windowsill; much like the light that cast down from the clouds. Today felt like a hello or a beginning.
Eventually, Kurt did decide to take each second of this day and spend them wisely.
He slipped out from underneath the warmth of his blankets, closing his eyes and wishing for a moment he could smell pancakes downstairs. His ears strained to hear his mother's careful humming from the kitchen. Kurt may not remember if she crossed her legs or not. He may not be able to quote what she said to him after he ran out headfirst into the street. These are things we forget when people die. But he'll never forget mornings. If only he'd appreciated them as much as he did now.
In the bathroom, Kurt avoided the mirror completely and jumped into the beams of water spouting from the shower head.
Because people's mothers die and leave their children with too much responsibility, Kurt made breakfast for himself and Burt. He decided to make eggs and turkey bacon, a healthy substitute for legitimate bacon that would've come from a chemically pumped steroid super pig. Eating healthy wasn't exactly mainstream, or acceptable for that matter, but it Burt would hardly be able to tell the difference between bacon bacon and turkey bacon.
No matter how time-consuming, Kurt really did enjoy cooking. A skillet and some ingredients gave Kurt a type of happiness, a hobby. As he cracked the eggs mindlessly after have mastering the skill, Kurt let his attention wander past Ohio and its customs.
There was one place that didn't have crazy rules and cages, and that place was New York. People hardly discussed New York here. The state was considered taboo. That didn't stop Kurt from peering out the window and wondering exactly what it'd be like to wear whatever he wanted or to not be surrounded by government searchers at school.
Several booming stomps came from the stairwell's general vicinity, indicating that Kurt's dad had just woken up and was storming down the stairs to get to work on time.
Pulling on the right strap of his overalls, Burt hurriedly grabbed the Tupperware container Kurt handed his way.
"Thanks bud," Burt wheezed as he hurriedly searched for his keys, "But you didn't have to make breakfast."
Actually, he did.
"Oh, it's no problem." Kurt said a little airily, still staring out into the bright day.
"Well, uh, you have fun today." Burt said, hand perched on the doorknob.
Kurt turned to face his father after pulling his intent stare away from the world behind the window's glass. He blinked for just a millisecond before replying, "Sure thing. I might go down to the River Walk."
"Alright, I'll see you later." Burt nodded awkwardly, hustling out of the door.
Kurt ate breakfast quickly, leaving about half of it in the fridge for left overs for tomorrow's morning meal. The cool breeze from the refrigerator reminded him of the smoldering temperatures outside, so he grabbed a few water bottles.
The closet door's hinges wailed like a teapot kettle when Kurt managed to pry it open. After rummaging through an assortment of fallen coats and mismatched socks, he found his beaten up tennis shoes. He hadn't worn them since Monday, but they'd still somehow gotten mixed up in the mess of his room.
Another thing Kurt wished he had: a clean room. But his dad checked every week to make sure there was still disorder in Kurt's only solitary place in the house. One would think Kurt would be able to choose the state of his room, but he wasn't really able to choose what clothes he wore either. Or his appearance.
Kurt tugged on his dirtied backpack and left the house. The grass slipped in between his feet and peeped through the holes in his shoes.
He realized that this exercise would contribute to his lean frame, or the only thing he could really control. With Burt making sure his clothes and his room and his face and his hair and his everything looked horrendous and safe, Kurt could keep just one thing to himself. His weight. He felt like it was sacred, divine. The one thing that could be anything Kurt wanted it to.
Reed Road passed quickly, for Kurt lived on the very edge of the shanty road. And soon, Kurt was walking along Buckeye Road. It was a little unnerving to turn left instead of right onto the Woodhull Bridge. He shuddered a little when he thought about where that would lead him. He gulped down the jagged words trying to rip their way up his throat, the leaches. Today was not for them, it was his day. He could feel it.
When Kurt jogged, he felt like he'd always imagined New York City to be. He gasped for each breath, his lugs on fire. Feet slapping against the pavement, running faster towards the finish line, NYC, his home; he'd know he belonged there as soon as the law had passed.
He knew it was useless, but hoping for a similar law in Lima was all Kurt could really do to keep his patience. He could hardly wait for the big city.
Soon, Kurt had become a breathless mess. He didn't run much, except for the occasional run from school to hop onto the ledge of a bridge.
...
Kurt realized that, standing in from of the Lima YMCA, perhaps he run a little too far. Panting, he sat down by the bushes surrounding the centerpiece flagpole like the outer ring of a dartboard. The backpack that contained only two of the five water bottles Kurt had packed earlier suddenly ached his back, becoming more and more unbelievably painful. He set the bag beside him. Kurt's shoulders seemed to float upwards without their anchor.
Kurt knew he'd never be able to walk all the way back home. He fished around in his backpack for the wad of cash he'd thrown in previously, hoping it'd be enough for a bus fare. Luckily, it was.
The bus stop was just a park bench, accompanied by a sign that said "Bus Stop" for obvious reasons. He pinched the money tightly in his fingers, gossamer like the twines of a spider web. The air was neutral, as was the light. His face was surely flushed, rather than pallid like usual when he was indoors. This was a contributing factor to Kurt's constant reclusion.
When the bus finally pulled up to its designated spot, Kurt filed in along with various other members of the Lima citizenship. He only vaguely recognized one short, stocky woman who had yellowing teeth and a receding hairline. Her daughter used to feed the fish at Lake Lima, where Burt tried to catch the fish. He tried not to look at her. She tried not to look at him. The whole town knew who'd suffered the many deaths that occurred around Kurt's childhood; the Lopez family, the Green family, the Puckerman family, the Johnson family, the Hudson family. There were countless others, of course.
He placed his forehead on the cool window. Kurt was certain it'd leave an indentation, but he was too tired to really care. Instead, he watched the kaleidoscope of trees and buildings flickering past his window.
Kurt calculated the time. He'd arrive on Reed Road around one 'o clock, which should allow him enough time to make his Dad's lunch. Burt would get home at two, given he was working part time today. This was highly likely.
As it turns out, Burt was in fact working the part-time shift and did arrive home at two. Kurt had made them sub sandwiches, opting to use light condiments instead the regular kinds. He felt a little guilty about lying to his father, but still found solace in knowing what he'd be eating.
The two of them sat down at the dinner table, eating the sub sandwiches in silence. Sometimes, Kurt wished the two of them could talk freely about anything he desired, but there was the stupid mirror and its stupid reflection, the stupid doorbell, the stupid phone, the stupid piano teacher that made everything a possible awkward confrontation.
Burt would turn the TV on as to fill in the massive gaps where the only sound was the food being chewed inside their mouths. So at least there was that.
When conversation was made, it was usually things that did not require an actual, emotional answer, such as "How was your day?" To which Kurt would reply, "Fine"
Mealtimes were never pleasant. Most interactions with his dad weren't really pleasant, even. Kurt hardly found comfort in his dad's presence. It was difficult to enjoy someone's company if they were constantly breathing down your neck about one thing or the other.
Kurt ate his sandwich with full intent to somehow burn the calories later. Maybe he'd tell his dad he had an emergency meeting with his English partner. And English partner who had moved to Thurston three months ago, but Kurt wasn't about to Burt. English partners were the least of Kurt's worries.
Burt, wolfing down his second sub, suddenly dropped his food and cursed. "I forgot to buy some more waters for the shop," He hissed, "Joe'll eat me alive if I don't bring 'em tomorrow."
Kurt glanced up hesitantly, "Are you going to go to the grocery story?"
Burt nodded, "Yeah, I'll be back in a little while," He left the house. Kurt not stopping him, of course. But then again, how would he have known that the worst possible thing could've happened while Burt was at the store?
Kurt cleaned his plate and started to clean the kitchen. His toe brushed against the crack in the tile just before the fridge. He winced, but not because it had hurt his toe.
Burt hurriedly scribbled down the man's order. Oil, bumper, what was the third thing? He nervously rubbed at the back of his neck, sweat dripping down his back in streams.
"Yes, thank you," He mumbled into the phone. Resting his head on the counter, Burt breathed in a few calming breaths of air. His eyes were red and bloodshot, no doubt.
The rest was short lived, however, because the phone rang once again. Nearly smashing the thing in the place he once rested, Burt reached for it. His had flickered like the tip of a candle, but eventually he picked up the receiver and placed it on his mouth.
"Hello?" He was a little frustrated. Actually, he was beyond frustrated. Because, Jesus, why couldn't he have a moment's rest? Burt spent each and every minute working and working. Those men were out there looking for kids to lock up in a cage for life; men he was sure would pluck his son straight out of Burt's life. The one before had died. He'd been so hungry they had to find another one, someone else who didn't deserve it. Honestly, he could escape them once, but twice?
No matter how angry Burt was, it all snapped when he heard the small, quivering voice on the telephone whisper, "Daddy?"
The rain tapped rhythmic beats onto the roof. The trees outside looked more like people rooted to the ground, being tugged to the east by the roaring wind. Thunder shook the walls, rattling the pictures tacked the walls. In the darkness, lighting filled the room with a sharp crackle of light. Kurt shivered and wrapped a blanket tighter around his shoulders.
He wondered how such a bright sunny day could turn to be gloomy and dark.
Kurt swallowed hard, feeling something sharp and jagged rise through his throat. It felt hard, terrifying, isolating. He wondered what it could be. Closing his eyes, Kurt decided there was something wrong with him. Something big.
The lighting entering the room like a whip tore him from his thoughts.
His hands shook from underneath the blanket. Kurt gripped onto the fabric like Reynolds.
His dad had been gone for seven hours, a long time to be at the supermarket. Kurt was afraid. He always was.
Lips trembling, Kurt let out a sharp breath.
The doorknob turned, along with the clap of thunder that almost shook the couch. Burt walked it, soaking with rainwater and acrid with the scent of alcohol. Kurt felt his life curve inwards on itself, like an inner tube or a child. Lurching forward, his memories and his thoughts and his wants combusted like a popping balloon. Leaches sucked on them, feasted on Kurt's last drop of content.
He'd been buttered up, fattened. This morning wasn't a beginning, it was an end.
Burt stepped in, slamming the door behind him. Kurt brought his hand to his nose subconsciously.
"Guess who I ran into today?" Burt asked slowly, narrowing his eyes just slightly, Chelsea Long, your piano teacher."
And then the lightning filled the house once more.
Author's Note: Well, there you have it! I hope everyone liked this chapter! I think it's a little forced... but... oh well. Tell me what you think in a review! A lot of the street names, River Walk, parks, places, etc. are real and in Lima. Woodhull Bridge and Pierpont Street are not, however. This is for a reason. Again, tell me what you think in a review! The map I used to figure out where Kurt ran and such is available on my profile. :) Again, don't get angry about Karofsky. He's not that bad of guy, you'll see. Also, if you found any mistakes, be sure to let me know. I didn't edit this chapter as thoroughly as the last one. Thanks!
-andwho